I was having a perfectly nice dream. I sat there, drinking tea, listening to nothing but birdsong. No traffic, no scrap man looking for a legitimate living out of begging, no van outside the house blasting Portugese hip-hop from his stereo. Just tea and birdsong. Then it was destroyed by a big, shiny robot with a vaguely female, but mostly robotic sounding voice. “The time is four. Forty-five. Ayyyyy Emmmm”. In one move, which I was possibly taught in one of my short-lived karate lessons at the age of eight, I woke, swung round and struck the robot right on the snooze button. Then I took in the surroundings and noticed something didn’t seem right. It was the light. It was, after all, 4.45 in the morning, a time I have as little experience with as
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